


Splat

by shiftylinguini



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Consent Issues, Creature Hunters Albus and James, Exploding Magical Creatures and Where to Step on Them, Facials, Fuck Or Die, Humor, M/M, Mild Gore, Poisoning, Rituals, Sex Magic, Sibling Incest, bit of angst, some leeches who have a very strange evening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:46:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24974797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiftylinguini/pseuds/shiftylinguini
Summary: Of all the things to happen to them, this is truly, truly the last thing James expected.
Relationships: Albus Severus Potter/James Sirius Potter
Comments: 10
Kudos: 126
Collections: Daily Deviant





	Splat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gracerene](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracerene/gifts).



> Written for the lovely Gracerene for Daily Deviant's Banging Birthday celebration. Lovely Grace, I hope you maybe like this! I was very excited to write this pairing with this specific scenario. I’m sorry in advance if this is too gross!! I didn’t plan it to be, but then I exploded a succubus and it was just all downhill from there.

***

Of all the things to happen to them, this is truly, truly the last thing James expected.

"Okay." He shakes his hand, trying to flick some of the viscous goo off of it. "Okay. Um. Shit." 

Across from him, Albus hasn't moved. "James," he mutters, eyes wide and frightened. There's goo on his cheek, a big hilarious globule of it sliding towards his mouth. Or it would be hilarious. If it wasn't quite so, well. Murdery. 

"Um." James wipes his hand over his own forehead, gets more of the noxious slime on it, 'cos he's a fucking idiot. He's panicking. There’s none in his mouth, and he doesn’t have any open cuts, but Albus. _Shit_. "This is okay,” James lies, for the benefit of all and sundry. It's not okay. They're...so fucked. 

"James, what--" Albus mouse-squeaks, but James shakes his head and croaks out a manic giggle. 

"Fine, fine, fine! It's fine. We're good, we just need to get clean, and then like." James licks his lips. He's trying to take charge, be a bit in control, but he doesn't really have a plan here. This has all gone very sideways. All tits are up. "Um. We get clean, and…." 

James trails off. Albus looks shell shocked, from underneath his sheen of cyan goop. He's definitely covered in the worse of it. He's definitely got it all over his face ( _eyes, mouth, nose. The scratch on his cheek. It’ll be in his bloodstream already. Shit.shit.shitshitshit_ ). They've definitely just confronted a succubus, in the woodlands off the west of Devon, and in the process of trying to subdue it managed to blow it up. How was James supposed to know that stabbing a succubus in the eye with your wand would make it go boom? ( _He should have fucking known that, what Creature Hunter doesn’t know everything about the creature they’re about to pelt spells at_ ). Maybe Succubi are allergic to wands made of birch, 9 inches, unicorn hair centre? He did at least know their blood was cyan blue, and thick, and smelled like syrupy-sweet overripe strawberries. 

And caused death within 24hrs of ingestion or exposure to an open wound. 

"It got in your cut, didn't it,' James whispers. It’s not a question. Albus was right in front of the thing when it went splat. He’s fucking drenched in its blue blood. James only has it on his hand, 'cos when the fight went to pot, when Albus froze instead of casting the spell that would sort the Succubus out, it was James who impulsively reached around the creature from behind and...accidentally stabbed his wand through its eye socket. 

Meaning, _yay_ , the creature is sorted, but _oh god boo_ , Albus is a fucking smurf now. A very mortally wounded smurf. 

"This tastes like trifle," says Albus bluntly after what feels like hours, but is really just minutes. James steps over the grisly carcass of the previously ravenous succubus and grabs Albus by the arm, galvanised into movement by his brother's apparent regaining of composure and evident sweet tooth. 

"Right, let's get out of here and get clean," James announces. "And stop licking your fucking lips." 

He's barely out the door before he's turning his shock into determination to craft a plan, dragging his blood-soaked sibling behind him. 

***

The safe house isn’t too far away. It’s more of a cabin, and somewhere thankfully only he and Albus know about. Due to, well, only them knowing about their hobby of moonlighting as Creature Hunters. There's just, a lot of rabid creatures around these days, a boom in numbers that's been rising since the war their father won. It's not a glamorous job, being one of the people who go about containing these outbreaks of unstable and deadly beings. It's also one that's fraught with moral and ethical issues, and not something that the sons of illustrious and heroic Harry Potter should have anything to do with. Not to mention the fact their aunt is still embroiled in intense legal battles to get the guild of Creature Wranglers struck off for murdering countless sentient creatures, the motivations of which wizarding society simply doesn't understand yet. The eldest Potter boys should be above this.

They're not, though. Not even one bit. James got into this after an ill-advised run in with a Lethifold while getting high in the Forbidden Forest. Driftless and listless after graduating school, he fell back into it as something to do, and feel important and successful while at it and while simultaneously being squashed under his father's oppressively brilliant shadow. Albus got into it because, well. 

Because Albus gets into whatever James is into, sooner or later. If James's father casts a suffocating shadow over his life, then Albus is the opposite, an adoring ombre trailing after James wherever he goes. It's nice. James likes being looked up to, and getting Albus into troublesome situations only to always save the day. 

James is not going to look into the irony of that statement right now. He's busy. Anyway, the safehouse's got a roof and four walls, and right now, as James struggles himself and a woozy Albus through the door, it’s a godsend. 

“Right.” James kicks the door shut behind him with a wobble and a clang. "First things first, you need a shower." 

Albus blinks at James sluggishly. "I'll just use a cleaning charm." He raises his arm with what appears to be some effort. "Bit tired. Knackered, really." 

James doesn't like the sound of that. _Tired_. He knows better than thinking Albus just needs a nap. The poison will already be working. When enough of it reaches Albus's heart, it'll stop beating. No frills, no whistles, just flatlining organs and cold skin. 

James taps Albus's cheek with his hand to get him alert again, not quite a slap but definitely one of its softer cousins. "Nope. No magic, too risky." He hefts Albus towards the bathroom, then props him up against the sink. "Get in there," he points to the shower, "after you get these clothes off and chuck them in the bloody bin. They're ruined." 

Albus frowns. "I like this top." He plucks at it with almost childlike misery. James isn't sure if the reality of this situation has sunk in for him. Or maybe he's groggy from the noxious goo in his system. He does look pale. 

"Bugger the top, Al." James shakes his head in exasperation. "I'm gonna burn it. And your jeans and your pants and your bracelet. Now get in the shower before I decide your hair has to go, too." 

Albus, topless now and struggling out of his left trouser leg, glares at James. "You wouldn't." 

"I would." James means it too. He'll shave Albus's chin length mop of curls off himself. He steadies Albus as he perilously wobbles, one foot still stuck in the right leg of his jeans. 

"Fuck you." Albus stomps on the jeans with his other foot to free his trapped limb. There's no real bite in his words, and James wants to think it's because Albus isn't angry at him for getting him into this... situation. Really, he knows it's more likely that Albus is just concentrating on not falling over. James keeps his hands on Albus's sides, fingers digging into his brother's skinny ribs. 

"Are you done yet?" he asks the ceiling, being vaguely polite about Albus's nudity. Or pending nudity. Albus is taking forever. 

"Yep." Albus kicks his pants off, then pats James on the shoulder as he ambles over to the shower stall. It takes some effort for James to pry his fingers off Albus. He wants to cling. He feels sick with guilt, and stress, and worry. Sick at the idea of what he's going to do now. Because he's going to do it, there's no question about it. There's one ritual that's guaranteed to fix this, and it has to be James who performs it, and it's going to be fucked up. James stands like an idiot as Albus stands bare-arsed under the shower spray. He feels paralysed, struck dumb by the enormity of how much of a big fucking deal this all is. 

"Wanna get in?" Albus flicks water at James, the shower curtain still open as he didn't bother to close it. "You're covered in this crap, too, so." Albus shrugs, sticks his face under the spray. He opens his mouth as if to gargle, then changes his mind and just spits the water against the porcelain wall. 

James keeps to his struck-dumb idiot routine for another twenty, thirty seconds, before deciding Albus has a point. He did get splattered in the blood. He toes his trainers off and adds them to pile of Albus's dirty keks, and quickly divests himself of his clothes. He steps under the spray before he can think too much about being this close to his naked brother. He better get used to it really. He's gonna have to be more than naked around him soon. 

"Too hot, Jesus," he mutters, fiddling with the shower knobs. 

"Not too hot. You're a baby." Albus makes a face at him, his cheeks now clean of the blood. He _is_ pale, much more so than usual. James can see that clearly now. The cut on his cheek is turning blue, a faint periwinkle stain blooming on his china cheek.

James lets out a breath and quickly washes his own face, and his hand, rubbing the bar of honey-scented soap over his skin again and again until he feels slightly more under control. Just slightly. 

As soon as he’s done he starts manically cleaning Albus's face. 

"James," Albus says after James washes Albus's cheek for the umpteenth time. "I think I'm clean, mate." 

James throws the bar of soap against the shower wall in frustration. "And I don't think you're taking this seriously," he snaps. It's abrupt. Albus blinks wide in surprise. 

"I am," Albus shoots back, wounded look upon his face. James hates that look. It's so not fair of him to make Albus feel bad right now, for James to be a moody cunt about this. Before he can apologise, Albus sighs. "Okay, so, I'm probably not taking it seriously." Albus ducks his head, letting the water hit his forehead. His fringe drags under the weight of it. There's not enough room for both of them to stand under the spray at the same time. "Sorry," he mumbles. 

James kinda wants to spew. "Don't say sorry," he grinds out, pushing his own dumb wet hair out of his eyes. "This is my fault." He feels dizzy saying it out loud. 

"Nah. Fifty, fifty, I reckon." Albus's smile is small, crooked and wry. "I always assume you have a plan, anyway. That's why it like. It hasn't hit me? What's happened here." He clears his throat, which turns into a real cough. "I just always know you have a plan, like. You know how to fix it." 

James feels like he's been hit by a truck. Slammed into, heavy and sudden. _I never know what I'm doing, holy shit Albus, you fucking moron!!_ he wants to scream. At the same time, he loves that Albus thinks he does though, loves it impossibly much. The hero worship. James is endlessly greedy for that. Albus stares at him, big green eyes peering through a wet curtain of black hair. He looks like something out of a J-horror film, a drenched ghost climbing out of a well. The tiles feel slimy under James's feet, slippy with left over soap suds. Down there, the water is still tinged a faint blue. 

"Shit, Al," says James on a shaky exile. He doesn't have anything else. 

Albus just shrugs, as if to say, prove me wrong. He's never been hugely shy, but there's something unexpected in how blunt he's being, how directly he's addressing the fact that he puts all his trust in James. He's never said any of this before. He pushes the hair off his face then leans back against the tiles. "You do have a plan, though, don't you," he states. His eyes are closed. James decides that's probably a good thing. 

"Yeah." James sighs. "It's fucked up, though. Like." He swallows, then licks his lips. He panics for a moment, but all he can taste is tap water.

Albus cracks one eye open, wary. "Fucked up how?" 

"Chapter 47, Al." James massages at his shoulder, focuses on a knot there and not the knot in his stomach. 

The pound of the shower water is dizzyingly loud as James lets that sink in for Albus. 

They've never had to use chapter 47 before. Obviously they haven't; it's not something they've even entertained they would ever really have to do. The _Gnostinomicon_ is full of the most batshit rituals and magic, some containing actual bat shit. It's brilliant and useful, and not exactly dark magic although their dad would have kittens if he knew his sons had got their grubby mitts on a copy. It's old magic, from druids and healers and those magic users from centuries past who had a different view on the world, on what to set a moral compass by. 

Chapter 47 is sex magic. Ritualistic healing, body fluid remedies, the old kiss it better treatment only much more visceral and far less sweet. They've both read it, because with the things they stupidly try and take down, sometimes there isn't a cure at St Mungo's. There isn't one for the filth chugging along in Albus's veins. There is one in the dank and fetid pages of chapter 47, though. 

Finally, Albus looks like reality has hit him. He slumps against the shower, looking smaller and younger than his twenty years all of a sudden. James sort of wants to ask, _oi, why is this affecting you more than the news you might actually be dead by tomorrow, kid??_ But he also isn't sure he wants to know the answer to that, so he keeps his mouth shut. 

"Shit," Albus mutters. His eyelashes clump together with water as he rapidly blinks. "Seriously?"

"Yep." James has a kneejerk impulse to ask if that's okay with Albus, if he's alright with that, if he's comfortable. _Consent in sex acts is key, after all_! Except it's not here. There isn't a 'no' option. There's do this, or Albus dies, and James's brain just sort of shorts out when he thinks about that. 

"Right." Albus stands upright, then moves to turn the shower off. He looks determined, and wobbly on his feet again. He doesn't look revolted, or traumatised, at least not yet. James stands there, skin prickling with goosebumps without the warm water on him, trying to think of something that seems remotely adequate to say here. He's got nothing, though. 

Unexpectedly, Albus sighs, then pulls James in for a quick hug. It's weird and a bit gross, their skin clammy and wet and Albus's tangly hair getting in James's mouth. It's over before James can really react, Albus peeling their bodies apart. He pats James on the shoulder. 

"Reckon it's okay if I have a lie down?" 

James places his own hand over Albus's, all ten of their combined fingers curling together as they rest on James's shoulder. "Yeah, I think so. I'll do--I'll get the stuff ready." 

Albus nods, doesn't make a joke about it. That more than anything tells James that Albus gets it. He knows this is for real. He's taken it in, and he's likely as heavy with the knowledge as James is, and as determined to see it through. They're peas in a pod, that way. A weird pair, closer than siblings should be, sharing a flat and a life and a really, really dangerous hobby, because they're thrill-seeking idiots. There's probably one functioning adult between them. You jump, I jump, Jack. It's really not an option for one of them to die. James won't have it. Albus won't have it. These are the lengths of love they'll go to--way further than they should be willing. 

And yet, here they bloody are. 

Albus is bundled in his white towelling robe before James has really got out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist. There's a towel around Albus's head, too, a beehive of wet hair. He looks stupid, as he always does like this. James kind of wants to laugh. He kind of wants to hug Albus again. 

Instead, he frogmarches Albus (gently) to the main bedroom and tucks him in, properly cocoons him in the duvet, before he gets dressed himself. James picks up their clothes off the bathroom floor, the steam from their shower already settling around the room and dissipating into misty droplets on the mirror. 

True to his word, he takes them outside and incinerates them.

***

The ritual is gross.

Not only that, but it takes ages to set up. James lets Albus sleep, resisting the urge to hover over him like a worried hen, and heads back out to the spot where they offed the succubus. Originally a beautiful woman (at least, that’s what James saw), in the end the creature had resembled something out of a Cronenberg wet dream. Not to mention that its head is now entirely gone. 

James knows what he has to do, and he does it as quickly and methodically as he can. He grabs the main organs, humming _Rock the Boat_ to try and distract himself from how truly gross this all is, and vowing to vegetarianism forevermore once this is over. He’s never gagged so much in his life, the smell affecting him more than anything. It helps that the creature isn’t disguised as human anymore, and that everything is blue rather than horrible red, but that’s about all the situation has going for it. 

He shoves the gizzards in Albus’s backpack ( _sorry, buddy_ ) and then heads to the creek near their safehouse for part two of his ritual prep.

***

The leeches were surprisingly easy to catch. James had expected to be sat at the creek for ages, twiddling his proverbial thumbs, but in the end he just waded in and stuck his bare arms in the water, up past his elbows. A half hour later and a suitable number of leeches attached, James has everything he needs.

He’s sitting at the kitchen counter when Albus wakes up and stumbles into the room, hair a massive went-to-sleep-with-it-wet shambles and white bathroom robe half falling off him. He might have grabbed James’s off the rack; it looks like it’s too big.

James doesn’t notice him at first. He’s letting the last of the leeches finish feeding off his wrist, on the juiciest reddest veins. One by one, when they're fat and full, he’s been pulling them off gentle as can be, and crushing them in his fist. The last leech meets the same fate, his own blood and mashed leech spilling over his clenched fingers and out the base of his fist into a blue porcelain bowl, to be mixed with burnt sage leaves and hemlock. It has the consistency of lumpy jam. The bad kind, that's been at the back of the pantry for way too long. 

“Ewww, James!” 

James startles, turning around to see his brother’s grossed out face. James shrugs, but his heart is beating hard from the surprise. And also, being caught with a hand covered in goop. That too. 

He points at the open book in front him, pages flipped to the ritual they’ll be doing. “Have a gander, baby brother,” he says with forced calm, before getting up and taking his top off. Albus sits down with a heavy sort of bodily plonk and looks at the page. 

“Ugh.” His face twists in distaste. “Seriously?”

“Yep.” 

“This is, like, the worst one in here.” 

“I dunno.” James picks up his bowl of herby leech goo and pats Albus on the shoulder, motioning him to follow. Albus’s mad mop of hair is covering the affected cut on his cheek so James can’t see it, but his lips have a light blue tinge, and his eyes are spiderwebbed by strange blue veins. James takes a steadying breath, then heads to the basement. “There are definitely worse ones in there.” 

“Unlikely.” Albus stands up, the wooden chair legs scraping on the slate tiles. “You just smooshed up a leech. Thought you were gonna eat it.” 

“Would've been better than licorice,” James calls out from the basement. He hears Albus’s laugh growing louder as he descends the stairs. The laughter turns into a groan as Albus sees what’s in the room. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he grumbles. James can’t help but laugh at his reaction. 

The room is ridiculous, James will freely admit that. It’s got the lot: drippy wax candles, burning bundles of rosemary and Eucalyptus twigs, two straw effigies which are meant to be a crude approximation of both he and Albus. They’re not great, but James is no artist, and he was making this on a fierce budget and with time constraints. They’ll do. 

The piece de resistance is, of course, the giant circle in the middle of the room made of blood and viscera from the succubus. James crosses it, careful not to stand on any wet bits, and then puts his bowl down next to it. He purses his lips, feeling a bit hysterical and ridiculous. 

“Ta dah,” he says after a long moment of silence from Albus. 

Albus snorts a laugh, then groans, pressing his forehead against the doorframe. "This is so foul, James," Albus stands up properly, pale and unimpressed and blue-bloodshot around the eyes. He pushes his hair back and James can see his face properly, lit by the eerie candle glow. 

The wound on his cheek is vibrantly red at the location of the wound, purplish spider veins webbing away from it and fading to blue as they reach his lips. He looks awful. The panic in James’s chest tightens. 

He snaps his fingers impatiently, then waves Albus over. "Just stand in the circle." 

“The circle of guts." 

“ _Albus_.”

Albus makes a show of dragging his feet. “As I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I slipped on an intestine,” he recites belligerently, tiptoeing pointedly around the dark blue, glistening gore James has artfully arranged. 

James can’t help it. He laughs. This is stupid, and Albus is stupid, and everything is stupid. Albus looks mildly pleased with himself for having made James laugh. He keeps walking towards him until James stills him with his hand. 

“No, no,” James hiccups, the dregs of laughter still bubbling out of him. He waves his hand to motion Albus to sit down. “You have to stay inside the circle.” He wipes at his eyes, swallowing the last of his laughter away. “And like, on your knees.”

“Of course I have to be on my knees,” Albus grumbles. “Ancient mages were a bunch of massive pervs, James.” 

James snorts another laugh. “Yeah. Inventive pervs.” 

Albus drops to his knees. “Wait, do I have to be, like.” He swallows. “Um, naked?” He tugs at a corner of his robe, pulling it off his shoulder further and making a face. He’s looking a little nervous all of a sudden. 

“Nah.” James clears his throat. “You can keep that on. It might get messy, though, but. We can wash it.” 

“Yayy,” Albus mutters distractedly. He shifts on his knees. “I’m guessing you have to get naked though, right?”

James fiddles with the hem of his trackies, and nods. This is it. Showtime. James makes himself pull his trackies down. He ponders for a brief mad moment whether he should leave them around his ankles or take them right off, but surely the latter would look stupider, right? Fuck it, he thinks, kicking them off and into the corner. They land on one of the old sofas that James moved out of the way earlier to make room for his disgusting mosaic. Might as well go all in. 

And there he is, buck naked in front of his kneeling brother. Holy shit. James can’t look at him. Albus is either looking at his bare dick, which is right at his eye level for fuck’s sake, or he’s not looking at it. Either way it’s in his face, and James is expected to get hard for this bit. Like, that’s the main catalyst of the sex magic to work here. 

Nothing has ever felt less sexy. 

“God,” James takes a deep breath, then covers his face with his hands. “Ohh, god.”

“James?” Albus sounds worried. 

“Yep, just, hang on,” James chokes out. His dick is not hard. Like, not even a bit. He’s surprised it hasn’t crawled back into him and then just completely left the country. The pressure is just...way too much. His brother is gonna die if he doesn’t do this. It’s his _brother_ he has to do this with. “Just gimme a sec.” Or ten. Or a million. 

“Um,” James can hear Albus shifting on his knees, before his hand tentatively presses against James’s bare thigh. James’s leg muscles tense up automatically. “So, like. Do you need some help?”

“What?” James manages through his fingers. His mind is whirring and his skin feels hot. He sort of wishes Albus would stop touching him, and at the same time, really wants a hug. This is the _worst_. He hasn’t got enough spare brain cells that aren't fully occupied with panicking to really process what Albus is talking about. 

“Well,” James thinks Albus must have moved closer; his breath ghosts over Jame’s bare leg. “I only skim read the ritual, but I saw that this part, like. Well. You need to get off, right?”

James groans, miserable and embarrassed and hot all over. He’s never coming out from behind his hands. His dick is never getting hard again. 

“I’ll take that as an affirmative.” Albus strokes over James’s leg. It’s soothing, comforting. James's skin is prickling up from the cold, bumping into gooseflesh. He’s sure that’s what it is. “Anyway, so what I’m saying is. I could, like, help?” Albus’s voice is small, but firm. James’s brain is processing everything he’s saying so slowly. Like his brain is stuck in a pit of molasses. “I could help you get off, Jamie.” 

For a brief moment, James' brain shorts out. Like, he's sure it actually stutters out, like a candle flame wafting around frantically when a breeze runs through it. He rights himself quickly though, and then he's just...very bloody startled. 

"You...fucking _what_?" he blurts out, pulling his hands away from his eyes and blinking down at Albus like a gobsmacked owl. 

Nonplussed, Albus just takes a moment and then says, "I’ve thought about it before." He's a bit glassy around the eyes, the way he gets when he has a high temperature. Just a little bit vacant. James doesn't interrupt him. He's not sure he's physically capable of speech right now. 

"It was ages ago," Albus goes on, "when I was younger. I thought about." He laughs, then coughs; it sounds thick. He makes a face at it. “Well, not about this. This scenario...is fucked. But about you, and sucking. Sucking you off. I’ve thought about it. A lot.” He sighs, almost wistful, almost romantic. “And I lied, it wasn’t just ages ago. It’s not a past tense thought.” 

James is, without exaggeration, dumb- fucking-founded. “Well. Shit,” he croaks.

Albus laughs, and it sounds genuinely amused with a big red tinge of hysteria. It matches the spaced out look in his eyes. James knows he must be feeling it now, the effects of the poison affecting his oxygen levels. He hasn't read anything about the poison making people arbitrarily confess to wanting to pork their siblings, though. Which means...Albus is just being honest. 

Fuck. 

Albus wipes at one eye like a tired toddler, huffing out a final laugh. “I know. Fucked up, right? What the hell, huh. I’m about to die and you’re about to give me a sad facial to stop it, and yet, I’m still the most fucked up thing in the room.” He sighs, wipes his eye again. “ I was never gonna tell you. Obviously," he adds, the _duh_ hanging in air after. "I figure what’s the harm now, though, right? Either I die and we never speak about it again, or we do this and." Albus shrugs. "Have some awkward family lunches from now on.” 

James is shell shocked. He’s trying to find the right response. “I think Sunday lunch is going to be awkward now anyway. Regardless,” he manages. “Cos my willy is out right now. And like, in your face.”

Albus laughs again. "Fuck. Fucking fuck Jamie, don't say willy." 

"Make me." James can’t help it. He’s giggling too, and it’s so ridiculous. "Okay. let’s. You know. If you want to." He's said it before he's even really thought it through properly. Something's lightened in his chest, some mechanical cogs coming loose and letting his lungs function. 

Albus blinks at him like he's lost his mind. Maybe he has. "Wait, that's it? You're like...not putting up more of a fight?" 

James holds his hands out, expansively inviting Albus to take in the room, and all the bullshit James has got them into. "Um, in case you haven't noticed, Albus, I'm not exactly in any position to take the moral high ground right now." He flaps his arm a bit stupidly to make his point. 

"Right, yeah, point taken. I just." Albus half shrugs. "I always imagined you'd be horrified. And--" He breaks off into a cough, something that starts light and turns into a deep and hacking wheeze. James hesitates a moment, before he cups Albus's cheek. 

"Al," says James, softly. His brother sounds awful. "I can't believe I'm about to say these words, but I don't think you should suck me off." 

"Boo," Albus manages between coughs. There are hectic red blotches on his neck and bare chest. He looks like he's struggling to keep his eyes open. "Probably right, though," he wheezes. "I don't feel so good." 

It's not a sexy line. It is the least sexy line that has ever been said by anyone, based on the words alone. In this context though, it's strangely the jolt James needed to the system. "Yeah, you're okay, buddy," he keeps one hand on Albus's fever-hot cheek, slipping the other around his cock. He grips it firm, then gets to work. He's got a job to do. He'll be awkward and embarrassed and horrified and genuinely turned-on (and then conflicted about that) later on, when they have the time. Now he just needs to get this done. 

It's an incredibly perfunctory wank. James starts off looking at the wall, but he can see the weird stuff in the room out of his periphery, so he shuts his eyes. He manages to get hard then, nice solid erection and he could almost cry with relief, but then his mind starts whirring and whizzing and being a general nuisance. He tries to fantasise about things, body parts, tits and arses and porn he's watched in the past, but all he can focus on is Albus's hot cheek cupped in his palm, how close his lips are to James's thumb. It's sick, proper sick, that that's what gets James leaking, makes his balls tighten and gives his belly a swoop. Anonymous body parts all fall by the wayside, not really doing much for James here anyway, replaced by just the dark behind his closed eyes and the tactile: Albus's open hand against James's thigh, James's palm cradling's Albus face. James sort of wants to open his eyes, to properly look at Albus's mouth ('cos fuck knows he's thinking about it now, properly genuinely thinking about Albus sucking him off). He's scared it would think it, knock him out of this strange, peaceful and startlingly hot bubble his mind has retreated to. He keeps his eyes pinched shut, his mouth dropping open and his thumb tracing figure 8s over the bud of Albus's lips. 

James comes quickly, with a surprised grunt. It's doubly unexpected to Albus, who startles under the hot splash of come over his collarbone, his chin--most importantly on his wounded cheek. 

James fights to catch his breath, peeling his eyes open. He feels triumphant, victorious. It's not over but it will be. His face is flushed and sweaty, the opposite of Albus's clammy pale skin. James's knees crack as he drops down in front of him, careful not to break the circle around them. He can't stop smiling. 

"Cheshire cat," Albus mumbles, blinking slowly. He's never looked worse. James smoothes Albus's hair away from his face, nodding and still smiling like a dopey idiot. He's going to tear up. He really doesn't care. 

"Last bit now, yeah?" He responds, still cupping Albus's cheek as he slumps a little. He's more than holding Albus up now. "Almost done." 

Albus nods, groggy and tired. "Kiss of life time." 

"Something like that, yeah," James mutters in reply before leaning forward and pressing his lips to Albus's blue-wounded and come-soaked cheek. 

James doesn't like the taste of come. He knows people who do, and yay for them. James tolerates it at best, and makes squeamish faces behind everyone's backs the rest of the time. This time is not different, although Albus is right, it kind of does have a faint taste of trifle. James pushes the thought aside, tries to clear his mind as he opens his mouth and does what he has to. He sucks once, twice, three times, like he would at a snake bite, trying to siphon the poison out. Each time he spits the contents out into the bowl of sage and leech, pulling Albus closer into a cuddle as he goes. 

The fourth time's the charm. James turns his head and spits, and _whoosh!_ The circle of viscera ignites, blue sparks and dazzling light, and then it's gone. Gunpowder scent fills the air, and the smell of overcooked steak and burnt hair. The candles have all blown out. One by one, they slowly flicker back to life. The porcelain bowl by James's side catches the light, ten glistening reborn leeches slithering around inside it and no doubt very confused as to how they got here. James will release them gratefully tomorrow, back into the pond. 

In his arms, Albus feels limp. James panics for a moment, but then Albus exhales wet and warm over his shoulder. The cut on his cheek is read and open. And that's it. It's just a cut. James traces his fingers around it, careful not to touch. It looks like it might sting. He feels a stupid sweel of emotion at knowing that's the worst it can do now. Sting a little, leave a bit of a scar. Nothing that won't heal up. Nothing that will go rotten over time, or harm them, poisoning them from the inside. 

Albus tightens his arms around James's waist. His eyelids flutter like he's fighting sleep, but exhaustion ultimately wins. 

Outside, the sun is beginning to rise. Inside, James can rest.

***

**Author's Note:**

> say hello to me on [tumblr](https://shiftylinguini.tumblr.com/) if you like xxx


End file.
